


When the Night Gets Dark

by allonsytosherwoodforest



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, angsty cuddling, post-Inquisition, slight cullrian at the beginning because i hate myself and others, this is a fic of non stop cuddling basically, this will make you feel things and i'm not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 12:49:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytosherwoodforest/pseuds/allonsytosherwoodforest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan seeks solace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Night Gets Dark

The nights are the hardest part after he’s gone.

It starts under the ragged rafters of Cullen’s tower, born of a desperate need for something, for _someone,_ to assuage the pain of the gaping hole in her soul that he so ruthlessly carved.

The moonlight drifts through the rafters and mingles with their even breaths. Dorian’s head lies pillowed sweetly on Cullen’s chest, and likewise Cullen’s arm is wrapped possessively around his lover’s waist. Their chests rise and fall in tandem; two gentle giants making a kingdom of a patchwork home.

The _pit pat_ of steps up the ladder has Dorian lifting his head wearily from his golden pillow. Cullen is awake a moment later, tense, as he curses his own foolishness. He has been too lax, too trusting in the glow of their victory and Dorian’s touch.

Their panic dissipates, however, after those brief, gut-wrenching moments as Lavellan’s head peeps over the platform.

They do not hesitate. Dorian peels himself off Cullen’s chest and shifts over as Cullen holds up the blanket as a silent invitation.

Lavellan releases a breath that sounds as though it has been trapped, aching to be released from its chest-prison. She slinks over to the bed and collapses gratefully between the two men. A perfect fit. Dorian and Cullen wrap her in their arms without a word and she does not cry. Not this night.

  

She never finds the same bed for more than one night.

Next is Cassandra, who lies awake with a novel in her hands, eyes drinking in the words like a thirsty wanderer drinks from an oasis. The words bring her comfort; they are soft where her life is hard, forgiving where the world is not. She refuses to think of it as an escape. The Maker gave her this life and she is grateful.

Lavellan does not knock. The door creaks open and Cassandra knows who her intruder is before the pointed ears and tired eyes peek around the frame.  

Without a word, Cassandra dog-ears her page and sets the book aside. She had made room for Lavellan in the bed before settling in for the night – just a feeling.

Lavellan sinks into the bed graciously, immediately curling in on her own small body. Perhaps if she disappears he won’t follow her. He is there in the Fade, he is there when she awakes. Always so cruelly, undeniably out of reach.

Cassandra turns down the lamp and closes her eyes. After a few minutes she reaches out a hand, which a smaller one immediately clasps.

The wet breathing stops after that. 

 

Vivienne does not touch her or offer words of comfort, but the covers are drawn back on the far side of the bed when Lavellan arrives.

And so another night passes. 

 

Blackwall lets her cry into his beard as he wraps her in his arms and rocks her gently. He smells like horses and wood shavings and home.

“Never liked that bald egg,” he eventually offers gruffly.

Lavellan laughs weakly and watery, the sound muffled. “He does rather look like an egg, doesn’t he?”

Still “does”. Not “did”. Not yet.

Blackwall smiles into her hair after she falls asleep. “Tough as nails. That’s our girl.” 

 

Varric’s room is warm.

The fire crackles in the hearth and Lavellan privately thinks Varric has the most comfortable bed in the Inquisition. Certainly more comfortable than hers. Her bed holds nothing for her now, not when he’s not in it. Even something as simple as a bed is tainted, just like everything else he left behind.

Varric had been writing when she came in, but he set his parchment down when he heard the door creak open on its rusty hinges. Truthfully, this writing has not been his best – his mind was not focused enough on the task at hand. His ears were too strained for the sound of her coming.

They are under the covers, Lavellan lying down, Varric sitting up. She wraps two thin arms around his leg and he cards his fingers through her hair, spinning one ridiculous tale after another. She grins feebly into his thigh at his more absurd accounts, and Varric would be pleased if he could not feel the hollowness in the motion. The hollowness in her.  He is fool enough to wish he could fill her up again. He is wise enough to know that is not his task.

He knows words will not keep her from the Fade, but words are all he knows. Words are what he is good at.

He stays awake all night anyway. Just in case. 

 

Josephine lets her help work on reports before bed, and then tucks her in like a child before following her into bed and pressing her chest against Lavellan’s back.

Josephine does not know how to use diplomacy to fix this.

 

Sera offers the kindest smile she knows how to make (along with her worst jokes) and gifts her a crude drawing. Sera counts it as a victory when Lavellan laughs, and she lets Sera braid knots into her hair and chatter about bees and stupid people and nothing until the bags under Lavellan’s eyes let them both know it is time for sleep.

Sera will shoot that sorry bastard when she sees him next.

 

The Iron Bull, of course, makes an obligatory pass at Lavellan before scooting over and welcoming her into his large bed. She looks so delicate in his massive bad next to his large body, almost breakable. He knows she is not, knows she was forged in fire and raised in ice. Knows she is the oncoming storm and the crushing waves and the steel in all of their blades.  He knows, however, she is not unbendable.

He offers to paint over the murals under the library. Not yet, Lavellan thinks.

 

Leliana knows she is too hard to offer Lavellan any real comfort. Perhaps she was capable once upon a time, but that hour has long since ticked dry. Leliana allows Lavellan’s head to rest in her lap as she dispatches more agents to find him. She knows it is fruitless.

The crows keep the pair company, cawing their displeasure into the night. Leliana hopes he hears it.

 

Cole understands the most out of all of them. He misses him too.

He had heard her coming. Well, he had heard her thoughts. Her thoughts are loud. Loud and screaming and tortured. But Cole does not need to listen to her thoughts to know them. They are printed on her face as clearly as the daylight through Skyhold’s worn rafters.  

Cole does not have to sleep, but Lavellan had insisted he take a small room anyway. She thought it would help him assimilate to their culture, make him feel like he was truly a part of them. Lavellan never makes him feel like he’s different. He likes that.  

Lavellan creeps over to Cole’s bed and crawls in without ceremony. Cole opens his arms and lets Lavellan slide between them.

Silence hangs in the air as the starlight wastes its time across the sky.

“I miss him, Cole,” Lavellan admits.

For once, Cole does not know the right words to say, which strings to tug until the hurt is healed. He is not the one who holds the balm to soothe Lavellan’s wounds.

So he simply responds, “Me too.”

 

 Somewhere, he does not sleep. He does not deserve it. And he knows that.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments appreciated.


End file.
